Chapter One. Consultation.
The autumn term at Swishford School was more than half over, and boys were waking up to the hope that after all the Christmas holidays, which seemed such a way off six weeks ago, might yet arrive during their lifetime. It was already rumoured that Blunt, the captain, had been invited to spend Christmas at Walkenshaw’s, the mathematical Dux’s, and every one knew how well Miss Walkenshaw and Blunt had “hit it” the last prize day, and prophecies were rife accordingly. More than that, Shanks, of the Fifth, had whispered in the ear of one or two bosom friends, and thus into the ear of all Swishford, that he was going into “swallows” this winter, and he had got down a book from town with instructions for self-measurement, and was mysteriously closeted in his own study every other evening with a tape. Other boys were beginning to “sit up” a little in the prospect of the coming examination, and generally there was an air of expectation about the place which was prophetic of the coming event.
On the afternoon, however, on which my story opens, two boys as they walked arm-in-arm along the cliffs towards Raveling, appeared to be engrossed in consultation, which, to judge by their serious faces, had nothing to do with Christmas. Let me introduce them to the reader. The taller of the two is a fine, sturdy, square-shouldered youth of fifteen or thereabouts, whose name in a certain section of Swishford is a household word. He is Bowler, the cock of the Fourth, who in the football match against Raveling a fortnight ago picked up the ball at half-back and ran clean through the enemy’s ranks and got a touch-down, which Blunt himself acknowledged was as pretty a piece of running as he had seen in his time. Ever since then Bowler has been the idol of the lower school.
His companion is a more delicate-looking boy, of about the same age, with a cheery face, and by no means unpleasant to look at. He is Gayford, as great a favourite in his way as Bowler, a boy whom nobody dislikes, and whom not a few, especially Bowler, like very much.
These are the two who walked that afternoon towards Raveling.
“Are you sure the fellow in the book doesn’t make it all up?” said Bowler dubiously.
“Not a bit of it,” replied his companion. “My uncle’s a captain, you know, and he says there are hundreds of islands like it, the jolliest places you ever saw, any amount of food, no wild animals, splendid weather all the year round, magnificent mountains and valleys and woods and bays, gorgeous fishing and hunting, oceans of fruit trees, everything a fellow could wish for, and not a soul on one of them.”
“Rum,” said Bowler reflectively; “seems rather a waste of jolly islands that.”
“Yes; but the thing is they’re hundreds of miles away from inhabited islands, so no one ever sees them.”
“Except your uncle. I wonder he wasn’t tempted to get out and take possession of one.”
“That’s just exactly what he said he was tempted to do,” replied Gayford, stopping short excitedly. “He said very little would have tempted him to do it, Bowler.”
“Oh!” was Bowler’s only reply.
“And I tell you another thing,” continued Gayford, “he gave me an old chart with the identical island he saw marked on it, and I’ve got it in my box, my boy.”
“Have you, though?” said Bowler. “I’d like to have a look at it.”
That evening the two boys held a solemn consultation in their study over Captain Gayford’s chart, and Gayford triumphantly pointed out the little island to his friend.
“There he is,” said he; “he doesn’t look a big one there, but he’s eight or ten miles across, my uncle says.”
“That seems a fair size—but, I say,” said Bowler, “how about getting there? How could any one find it out?”
Gayford laughed.
“You’re coming round, then,” said he; “why, you old noodle, you couldn’t possibly miss it. Do you see that town called Sinnamary (what a name, eh?) on the coast of South Africa? Well, don’t you see the island’s dead north from there as straight as ever you can go? All you want is a compass and a southerly breeze—and there you are, my boy.”
“But what about currents and all that?” queried Bowler, who knew a little physical geography. “Doesn’t the Gulf Stream hang about somewhere there?”
“Very likely,” said Gayford; “all the better for us too; for I fancy the island is on it, so if we once get into it we’re bound to turn up right.”
“Anyhow,” said Bowler, who was not quite convinced, “I suppose one could easily get all that sort of thing up.”
“Oh, of course. But, I say, old man, what do you say?”
“Well,” said Bowler, digging his hands into his pockets and taking another survey of the chart, “I’m rather game, do you know!”
“Hurrah!” said Gayford. “I know we shall be all right if we get you.”
“Who do you mean by we?” asked Bowler.
“Ah, that’s another point. I haven’t mentioned it to any one yet; but we should want about half a dozen fellows, you know.”
“Don’t have Burton,” said Bowler.
“Rather not; nor Wragg—but what do you say to Wallas?”
“He’s muffed quarter-back rather this term, but I daresay he might do for one.”
“Well then, what about Braintree?”
“Too big a swell,” said Bowler.
“But he’s got a rifle at home.”
“Oh, ah! all serene. Stick him down.”
“What do you say to having them in, and talking it over before we ask any one else?”
This prudent proposition was agreed to, an extra spoonful of tea was put in the pot, and Gayford went out and conducted his guests in personally.
“The fact is,” said Gayford, after having delicately disclosed the scheme on hand, and roused his hearers to a pitch of uncomfortable curiosity, “the fact is, Bowler and I thought you two fellows might like to join us.”
“You’ll have to wait till the spring,” said Wallas, a somewhat dismal-looking specimen of humanity. “I’ve got my Oxford local in January.”
“Oh, of course, we shouldn’t start till after that,” said Gayford, ready to smooth away all obstacles.
“Warthah hot, won’t it be?” said Braintree, looking at the map.
“No, I believe not,” said Gayford; “there’s something about the Gulf Stream, you know, keeps it fresh.”
“Wum idea calling an island fwesh,” said Braintree, giggling. “It’ll be a fresh start for it when we take possession of it, anyhow,” said Bowler. “Of course you’ll bring your rifle, Braintree?”
“Warthah,” replied Braintree, “in case of niggers or wobbers.”
“Hope we shan’t quarrel when we get out,” said Wallas. “That’s the way these things generally end.”
“Bosh!” said Bowler; “there’s no chance of that—just like you, throwing cold water on everything. Wallas.”
“If you call what I say bosh,” said Wallas warmly, “it’s a pity you asked me to join you.”
It took some time to get over this little breeze and restore the party to good humour. This was, however, accomplished in time, and the consultation continued.
“We ought to have three more fellows, at least,” said Bowler. “I tell you what, each of you pick one. Who do you say, Gav?”
“Well, I fancy young Wester might do,” said Gayford.
“Warthah a pwig, isn’t he?” suggested Braintree.
“He is a little,” replied Gayford; “but he’s very obliging, and fags rather well.”
“All serene. Now then, Wallas, who’s your man?” asked Bowler.
“Tubbs,” said Wallas. Tubbs was one of the most hopeless louts at Swishford.
Gayford gave a low whistle; but he was too anxious to preserve the harmony of the party to offer any objection.
“Now you, Braintree?”
“I say, Cwashford. Jolly fellow, and knows French, too.”
“Ah, but he is such a cad,” said Bowler imploringly.
“Couldn’t you think of somebody else, Braintree?” asked Gayford.
“Oh, have Cwashford. He’s a wewy decent fellah. I like Cwashford, you know.”
“Well, there’s this to be said,” remarked Bowler, finding there was no getting out of it, “it may be rather a good thing to have some one to keep in order; it will give us something to do.”
“Yes, I expect you’ll want it,” said Wallas. “My opinion is it will be jolly slow out there.”
“Not a bit of it. We shall have to go out every day and shoot our game—”
“With my wifle,” put in Braintree.
“And then there’ll be a log hut to build and the whole place to explore, and lots of bathing and boating.”
“And no lessons to do at night.”
“And we can get up concerts and penny readings, you know, for the winter evenings.”
“And needn’t get up till half-past nine in the morning.”
And so they went on, till gradually the prospect became so delightful that even Wallas warmed up to it and expressed a wish that they could start at once.
It was, however, decided that they could not manage it this term, as they would have to spend Christmas at home and provide themselves with necessaries for their journey. As to the means of getting out as far as Sinnamary, at any rate, they had no anxiety on that score, for Captain Gayford, when he once heard the object of their expedition, would be sure to take them on one of his ships, and possibly afford them much valuable information as to their further route into the bargain.
Before the council broke up one solemn and momentous step was taken.
“What shall we call our island?” asked Bowler dramatically, placing his finger on the map and looking round on his fellow-adventurers.
There was a pause, and for a moment the founders of the new empire were wrapped in silent thought. At last Gayford said—
“I know—just the thing.”
“What? What? What?” inquired three voices.
“New Swishford.”
It is hardly needful to add that the name was there and then duly appended to the island on the chart in red ink, which done, the company separated to sleep, and heard all night long in their dreams the crack of Braintree’s “wifle” echoing among the waving woods and fertile valleys of New Swishford.